Chapter 15

The memory of Rivka’s near death was as fresh as yesterday as Gershon walked home from her house a quarter of a century later. He was glad to leave her neighbourhood, stinking of overflowing garbage and horse droppings, and get back to the well-kept area of the Lower East Side where he lived. Thinking about the challenge of finding Shmuel gradually improved his mood too. Not only would he repay Rivka, he’d have the satisfaction of demolishing Avram’s mule-headed claim that Shmuel was dead. The only downside to finding his nephew was that Avram could once again brag about his son, the future rabbi. A lesser man than himself, Gershon thought, might wish the boy had run away and disappeared for good.

Yetta was bent over the oven when he walked in, checking the brisket to see if the meat was tender enough to pull away with a fork. “Feathers flying off bones,” she called it. “Twelve minutes, it should be ready,” she said. Now that Gershon no longer worked on Sundays, his wife cooked a big midday meal like the gentiles. “So, the apartment will make Hymie’s wife act nice to Jews and Jews will learn a shiksa’s garbage stinks no worse than theirs?” she asked.

Gershon unwound the heavy woollen scarf from his mouth and nose and breathed in the welcome aroma of his own house. No matter how rich his neighbours, the hallways still stank of the foods they cooked in the countries they emigrated from. “As long as she cooks with vegetables from Hymie’s cart, the garbage will smell the same,” Gershon said.

After wrapping his arms around her ample waist, he went into the dining room. Yetta followed. She moved a cut-glass bowl of nuts from the sideboard to the table and watched to make sure he took a fistful of cashews, his favourite, before she settled down next to him. Now that he had her full attention, Gershon announced, “Shmuel has run off and joined the Navy.”

Yetta put her hand to her throat. “What are you saying? He’s sixteen, the same age as our Ruchel. Since when does this country send children to be killed?”

“Shmuel is like his father, headstrong and stubborn. Only smarter, like me. He must have convinced the recruiter he was old enough to enlist.”

“The Navy allows Jews?” Yetta groaned, remembering her severe nausea on the boat to America. She said she couldn’t picture someone choosing to spend months at sea.

“For all I know, he lied about his religion too.”

Yetta dabbed her eyes with her apron. “They know where he was sent?”

“They don’t even know for sure it was the Navy. Dev says his friends saw him looking at a poster outside United’s.” Gershon patted Yetta’s hand. “Don’t get yourself in a tsimmes. We can’t do anything until tomorrow when the recruitment office opens.”

“You can help find him?”

“Rivka wants me to. Avram is already sitting shiva.”

“Just like that, the man declares his son dead?” Yetta inhaled sharply. “How is Rivka?”

“Like you’d expect.”

Yetta called the girls into the dining room and told them what had happened. “Our food can wait,” she said. “I’m going to see Rivka now.”

“No!” Gershon thrust away the bowl of nuts. “I said that as long as Avram persists in his nonsense, you and the girls won’t visit and the chevra kadisha won’t bring meals.”

“For shame Gershon. She’s your sister. Suppose Zipporah or Ruchel disappeared.”

“Yetta, I forbid it.” Gershon’s eyes warned his daughters too. “Get washed for dinner.”

Tears staining her cheeks, Yetta returned to the kitchen. Moments later a platter clattered to the floor. “It’s all right,” she called in a quivering voice. “The meat wasn’t on the plate yet.”

Zipporah went into the kitchen to help her mother clean up.

“I’m going to see Tante Rivka and Dev.” Ruchel thrust her arms into her coat and rushed out the door, knocking Gershon’s hat from the shelf to the floor as she swept past.

Gershon ate a hearty meal. He refused to discuss Shmuel, afraid Yetta would try to dissuade him from banning her visits to Rivka, but underneath his small talk he was busy calculating who to call and who would need to be paid in order to rescue his nephew. Frustrated that he had to wait until Monday to begin his search, Gershon directed his energy toward finding a place for Mrs. Meltzer. He retreated to his study and seized the phone.

It was answered on the first ring. “Hadassah House for the Elderly and Infirm, Joseph Cohen, proprietor, speaking.” The home served three Lower East Side congregations. Gershon persuaded local businessmen to donate goods and services; in exchange he threw contracts their way. Many, who like him had left elderly parents behind, relieved their guilt through these acts of tzedakah. Mr. Cohen was not one of them. He claimed it was charity enough that he ran the place cheaply and efficiently. Gershon suspected the man skimmed food, linens, and light bulbs for his own family.

“Joe, I need a place for Mrs. Meltzer.”

“Her daughter and son-in-law can give me something for the bed?”

“You got openings, Joe. Two residents died last week. I’ll move her in on Monday.”

“I got three on the waiting list who can pay full price. Subsidies and donations alone can’t keep the place going. You knew when you made me proprietor that I’m a businessman, like you.”

“I know the sinks leak and the old people’s bones rattle from the cold.” It galled Gershon that Mr. Cohen let the residents live that way. Avram was worse, forcing his own family to stay in that small, stinking apartment when they could live better with Gershon’s help.

“You’re telling me to fix the sinks and the boiler? These things take money, Gershon.”

“I’m telling you to stop skimming the coal Moishe Friedman delivers in order to heat your own house, and to admit Mrs. Meltzer. I’m also warning you I got two gentleman with business smarts plus hearts of gold, just arrived from Galicia, who can take over your job.”

Mr. Cohen cleared his throat. “Give me until Monday afternoon. Anything else I can do?”

“The shul needs a new roof. The classrooms in the attic get wet when it rains.”

“I’ll drop off a donation tomorrow.” Mr. Cohen sighed and said goodbye.

Gershon stroked the polished surface of his desk and smiled to himself. “One more thing before you go, Joe. Mrs. Meltzer likes her kreplach seasoned with extra pepper but no salt.”

***

At last, Gershon was ready to resume his weekly Torah studies. Perhaps the text would reveal a message from God about how to search for Shmuel, just as the forefathers sought signs (an angel, a dove, a girl at the well) that they were on the right path. You had to be astute to recognize them, however. He’d learned growing up in Lemberg that his own brains, while admittedly a gift from the divine, were what ultimately got him what he wanted in life, especially his beloved Yetta.